


you, you're hotter than the cherry on a cigarette

by notthebigspoon



Series: Amaryllis [20]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/479580"> they put a lot on us hardly knowin' one another </a> we hear about BB Belt having rugburn on his face. This is how he got it. Takes place same night as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/481648"> tonight the music seems so loud, i wish that we could lose this crowd</a>.</p><p>Title taken from Move Your Body by My Darkest Days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you, you're hotter than the cherry on a cigarette

**Author's Note:**

> For and inspired by [ crimsonkitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty).

“Seriously man. Rug burn on your face?”

“Weren't you the one bitching about everyone invading your privacy?”

“Yeah, but I never got rug burn on my face.”

“I'm not telling you.”

“C'mon.”

“No.”

Pence looks put out but then he sees Pagan flashing his abs at someone and he gets a faraway look in his eyes, pats Brandon's cheek and heads in that direction. Brandon grumbles and considers smothering Vogey with a pillow for letting slip the rugburn thing. Most people have forgotten it by now, abandoning the story in favor of juicier scandals from more important players but if he goes dragging it up again, someone's going to get bored enough to use it against him.

Brandon still doesn't know if it's a good or a bad memory.

***

Brandon isn't really sure how he got himself into this situation.

He knows how it _started_. It started the first time he was called up. He was tormented mercilessly, mostly by Wilson because he was bored. The virgin thing had started as a joke, with Wilson on a never ending quest to 'pop Belt's cherry', so sayeth Lincecum. And Brandon didn't really mind it, was the weird thing. Wilson was one of those people that you would rather have annoy the shit out of you than completely ignore you.

Or maybe that was just Brandon.

What matters is that the fourth time he was called up, it all came to a head. Brandon had been hovering in the clubhouse after a game. It was mostly empty, Whiteside in the corner looking like he wanted to kill somebody (which Brandon found kind of terrifying given that the guy is usually so calm) with Jonathan Sanchez rubbing his shoulder and speaking quietly into his ear. It's Spanish, which Brandon doesn't speak but Whiteside apparently understands it and he slowly calms down, finally nodding and allowing Sanchez to grab both of their bags and steer him out of the clubhouse. They say goodbye to Brandon and he nods.

The door swings shut. It's dead silent and he's alone. He decides he should probably get out of there before he's actually locked in. He's reaching into his locker for his bag when two hands grab his shoulders and someone quite large presses up behind him. He is entirely unashamed of the fact that he screams like a girl.

What _does_ bother him is the bark of laughter and the tears of mirth in Wilson's eyes. Brandon scowls and shoves at his chest, yanking the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder and stalking out of the clubhouse. Wilson scrambles after him, still laughing.

“You're not _fucking_ funny!” Brandon snaps. Today wasn't the greatest day he's ever had and he's just not in the mood for Wilson's shit.

“Awww, just a little bit of fun baby.”

“Well go have fun with someone else. I'm not in the mood for your shit.”

The mood changes, Wilson no longer laughing and when Brandon glares at him, he notes the change of expression. “If it's about the game, don't worry about it. So you had an off day. Happens to everybody.”

That _is_ it. But Brandon isn't going to give him that satisfaction and he keeps walking without saying a word to Wilson, only good night to the security guard when he walks into the player's lot. He can hear Wilson following him but he ignores it, unlocking the door of his truck and opening it, throwing his bag into the passenger's seat. He turns and... yep, Wilson's still there. 

“Look... I'm sorry. Come over to my place. We'll drink a little booze, play some video games, cheer ya up.”

It was on the tip of Brandon's tongue to say no, to give a scathing refusal and drive off, show Wilson just how much Brandon didn't need his sympathy.

Except his brain disagreed and decided yes was a better answer.

They did start out playing video games, Mario Kart and whoever lost a given round having to do a shot. He's not exactly sure what got them to the point that Wii had shut off, the TV a blank blue that illuminates the living room where Wilson has Brandon on his hands and knees, cursing as Wilson twists the three fingers he's slowly fucking Brandon with.

He asks if Brandon's done this before but Brandon is too dazed to really give him an answer that's more than a moan and a shake of his head. He doesn't want to admit that this is his first time with a guy because what if Wilson _stops_. Brandon wants more. Moremoremore. 

He must have said that out loud because Wilson laughs, low and throaty, and runs a hand over Brandon's back. “Oh, you'll get more. Promise.”

Which is fucking bullshit because suddenly Wilson's fingers are just gone and Brandon is whimpering but then... _oh_. Wilson's big and thick and it hurts but the more he moves the better it feels and before Brandon knows it, he's whimpering and moaning, every dirty word he's ever learned and some noises that could probably be considered foul language.

His arms go out from underneath him, sending him chest first into the carpet but he just doesn't care. Wilson is fucking into him with deep thrusts that rock Brandon's entire body, hands gripping Brandon's hips tight enough to bruise. A mewled _please_ gets a hand on Brandon's cock and five rough strokes before Brandon is screaming, sharp and wordless, vision whiting out and body going slack.

When he finally comes back to himself, he's on his back and panting while Wilson sits back with an insufferably smug look on his face. “Feel better?”

Brandon eyes him but nods, slowly getting up and getting dressed. He aches, all over, but it's in a good way. Really, Wilson's treating him no differently than he usually does which Brandon finds kind of relieving, because he likes the guy but he doesn't want to spend any more time with him than he usually has to.

“See you tomorrow kid.”

Brandon wishes he knew what was so funny.

***

“So he comes into the clubhouse and like, the top half of his left cheek and along his cheekbone are all scraped raw and he had bruises on his chin and neck and the coaches start flipping the fuck out.” Romo is talking a mile a minute, face animated and arms flailing. “And everybody thought he'd gotten like, mugged or something and he wouldn't tell anyone what happened.”

Pence, as he so often does, looks both riveted and embarrassed by the overshare going on around him. He's practically in Pagan's lap and so is Blanco, though Pagan doesn't look particularly happy about any of it. Cabrera just looks confused. Vogelsong pets his head.

“So how'd you find out it was rug burn?” Pence asks, wrinkling his forehead.

“They got me hammered and wormed it out of me.” Brandon says flatly, stopping at the edge of the table. Vogelsong looks like he knows just how much trouble he's in and grabs Melky's hand, clearing out. 

Romo just beams and bounces in his seat. “At first we thought he got it from Wilson's beard, which sounds weird but I mean, you've seen the thing, it could cause some serious damage. But the more tequila he drinks, the more he talks.”

The little bastard looks completely unapologetic for telling everyone this and Brandon has had enough. He retaliates the only way he can, snatching the tray of shots sitting in front of Romo and throwing them back before stalking off. The second he spots Crawford, he grabs him by the shirt and starts dragging him towards the door.

“What the hell, baby g?!”

“We're going back to the hotel.” Brandon snarls, not looking back. “And then we will go to my room, and we will go to bed, and you are going to fuck me until I can't remember I know any of these stupid fucking idiots.”

“I... okay.”


End file.
